


Carving Out a New Tradition

by waterofthemoon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Dating, Established Relationship, Fluff, Halloween, Idiots in Love, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Movie Night, One Shot, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Pumpkin carving, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27308194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterofthemoon/pseuds/waterofthemoon
Summary: On Halloween, the spookiest night of the year, Aziraphale and Crowley mark the occasion with a cozy night in.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 83
Collections: Trickety-Boo! Exchange





	Carving Out a New Tradition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aura0190](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aura0190/gifts).



> Written for @Aura0190 for the Trickety-Boo Exchange at GO Events! One of her prompts was Aziraphale and Crowley celebrating Halloween together, and I very much enjoyed writing this bit of softness - I hope you like it, too! Thanks so much to @ZehWulf for the fantastic beta! ❤️

When Aziraphale arrives at Crowley's flat on All Hallows' Eve, the door is ajar. It creaks when he opens it, and he peers around it before stepping inside.

He wasn't expecting the door to be open. It's not like Crowley—he's usually so careful to guard the privacy of his sanctuary, and ever since the averting of the apocalypse, even more so. The sight and sound of it brings up a rush of old fears, things he thought he had tamped down after the success of their little stunt.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale calls. He adjusts his hold on his tote bag. "Are you in here? I got your missive."

The flat is dark, even more so than Crowley usually keeps it, and too quiet. Almost still, except for the rustling of plant leaves coming from the conservatory. Aziraphale stays on his guard, wishing he had a sword or even a common knife to brandish in case Crowley's place has been compromised and things become dire.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale shuts the door and takes a few more steps in. "Are you all right? Where the devil are you?"

There's another rustle out of the stillness, this time much closer, and a sliding noise that could be the shifting of scales against the concrete floor. Then, from behind him, the sound of a body rearranging itself from one form to another, nearly imperceptible except to a being like Aziraphale. He holds quite still and waits, hoping.

"Boo!"

Aziraphale doesn't hesitate—he drops his bag, whips around, and hauls the body behind him up against the nearest wall. His arm slams against his assailant's throat, pinning him to the wall. Protective adrenaline floods his veins; even when he confirms who it is he's got in his hold, it's a moment or two while they stare into each other's eyes before he relents.

"Crowley," he scolds. He lowers his arm but fixes Crowley with a hard stare and raised eyebrows.

Beneath him, Crowley is wide-eyed and breathing hard, clearly having been caught off guard. Really, he ought to know better than to sneak up on people.

"Holy shit." A ferocious blush threatens to overtake Crowley's face. "Kinda forgot you could do that. Good—good reminder."

Aziraphale releases him, but Crowley doesn't let him get far; he rests his hands on Aziraphale's hips and draws him in for an apology kiss, which Aziraphale accepts. He _is_ here for a date, after all.

"What do you mean by skulking around like that, anyway?" Aziraphale demands. "And why on earth was your door open?"

Crowley shrugs. "Just wanted to surprise you. Also, you don't have a key, not since I changed the locks."

"We don't need keys." Aziraphale wiggles his fingers to indicate the miracle of lockpicking.

"Well, anyway," Crowley says. "Care to come in properly?"

He raises his eyebrows, making it clear he's trying for innuendo. Aziraphale rolls his eyes and pushes on Crowley's chest playfully. "Mmm. Later, perhaps."

Crowley's cheeks turn pink with pleasure. Aziraphale likes seeing it on him—it hasn't been long at all since he's gotten to return Crowley's advances, and so it's a new sort of thing, getting to see Crowley like that. He continues, "I've brought wine and pumpkins."

"Pumpkins?" Crowley cocks an eyebrow.

"I know, dear, turnips are traditional for All Hallows' Eve, but I don't really like turnips, do you?" Aziraphale says. He moves through the flat, trailing Crowley behind him, and unpacks his bag on the spotless kitchen counter. "I like pumpkins. I thought we could carve them, and if we're feeling very ambitious tomorrow, I _might_ even try my hand at a pie."

He wonders if it's too much, the assumption that he'll be staying the night, and the implications present in that. It's so difficult to know, but in looking at Crowley's pleased, relaxed face, one eyebrow still quirked as he examines the pumpkins, he doesn't think it's too much at all.

"Crack open a bottle, will you?" Crowley finally says, giving the pumpkins one last prod with the pad of his index finger. "I'll get a knife."

*

As it turns out, pumpkin carving is a rather messier business than Aziraphale realized.

He and Crowley are sitting side by side on stools at Crowley's stainless steel counter. His round hip brushes against Crowley's lean one as they giggle together, tipsy on red wine and beloved company. Piles of pumpkin innards, gleefully scooped out with a melon baller, cover the unused side of the counter.

To protect his antique clothing, Aziraphale stripped off his coat almost immediately after getting his things unpacked. It was swiftly followed by his waistcoat when they really got cracking, lest the worn velvet be ruined by a bit of stray pulp. Now he's down to his shirtsleeves and pretending not to notice Crowley sneaking heated glances at him, even as he's admiring Crowley right back.

"Okay, okay, okay," Crowley says. His eyes dance with mischievous laughter. " _Maybe_ you were right about the boats, but that was a thousand years ago! _More_ than that. C'mere."

Crowley leans in, snags his fingers—pumpkin pulp and all, blast him—under one of Aziraphale's braces, and pulls him in for a kiss, sweet and firm. Aziraphale's pumpkin is in his lap with a tea towel underneath it, ready for carving. It gets caught between them as Crowley gets up off his stool and presses in.

"I'm opening another bottle," Crowley murmurs when he breaks the kiss. He frowns at Aziraphale and brushes a miracle against the brace he soiled, dissolving the mess into nothing. Mollified, Aziraphale presses his lips to Crowley's hand. "Refill?"

"Yes, please." Aziraphale watches Crowley's hips sway as he crosses the room and uncorks another bottle, a lovely vintage from his own collection.

"What are you going to carve, then?" Crowley asks. He returns with the bottle and snags Aziraphale's glass from over his shoulder, a movement that causes his arm to drag over Aziraphale's chest. Aziraphale thinks about tugging on it and keeping him there, perhaps pulling Crowley into his lap, but then Crowley pulls back, and the moment passes.

He purses his lips in thought. "Not sure," he admits. He considers the curved surface of his pumpkin as Crowley hands him his glass back.

"Thought you'd already have a plan, since it was your idea and all. Cheers." Crowley clinks their glasses together and takes a long sip, during which Aziraphale has time to admire the bob of his throat. Crowley then frowns at his pumpkin still sitting on the table, picks up the carving knife, and starts slicing through the tough skin.

Abandoning his pumpkin on the counter for the moment, Aziraphale leans over to watch Crowley at work. Crowley cuts lines through the surface of his, sure and confident with the knife—a swooping motion for the curves, a decisive downward pull for the straight lines. His long fingers trail over the as-yet unbroken parts of the pumpkin's skin, practically caressing it.

Crowley huffs out a laugh. "You're staring."

Aziraphale flushes and pulls back to sit up straight on his stool. "I just want to see," he insists. "You're so creative. Have you thought up a scheme for yours?"

"Ngh." Now Crowley's blushing again. "It's nothing. I'm not even sure what it is yet."

Aziraphale nuzzles his cheek, earning a grumble from Crowley, and sits back on his own stool. He then pulls his pumpkin back into his lap and finds another knife on the counter, exactly where one should be. "I suppose we'll both get to find out, then."

They work companionably for a bit, the silence broken when one of them remembers a funny anecdote or thinks of a clever counterpoint to an earlier argument, their conversation winding in and over itself as it always has. Aziraphale's carving is a bit crude, he thinks, but he's drunk and happy and has Crowley by his side, who's warm and has a growing look of fiendish concentration on his face as he makes sharp, quick cuts through the skin of his pumpkin. And that's really what matters, isn't it?

By the time they've finished, the second bottle of wine has also been drunk, and Aziraphale's pumpkin sports a fairly respectable pear cutout. It's not very spooky, admittedly, but he _likes_ pears, and he likes how it looks with the round shape of the pumpkin.

He looks over again at Crowley's, which Crowley's just set gently back on the counter, and, _oh_. It appears random at first, abstract swirls and lines sliced clean through the pumpkin's shell. But then Aziraphale lets the image solidify into a whole, and the shape of an apple comes through, plain as anything.

"Crowley." He wipes his eyes and hopes he can explain away the sudden mist in them as maudlin drunkenness. "It's wonderful. I love it."

"Shut up," Crowley groans. But he makes similar admiring noises over Aziraphale's work, and he helps carry the two pumpkins through the conservatory to sit on the long table next to his throne. He turns on the battery-operated tea lights and hands them to Aziraphale, who gently sets them inside. He takes pictures of their pumpkins, side by side, and sets one as the lock screen on his portable telephone.

They kiss again, in front of the results of their craftsmanship—such a small thing, really, but it's something they made with their own hands, and made together. It doesn't feel small at all. Aziraphale clings on, deepening the kiss, and pretends he doesn't notice when Crowley surreptitiously takes another photo.

*

After the kitchen has been cleaned with a miracle and the seeds and gooey remains of the pumpkins are stored safely in Crowley's refrigerator for future baking experiments, they retire to the sofa in front of Crowley's television. It's a very recent addition to the space, and one that Crowley asked him not to make a big deal about when he put it there the first time Aziraphale came over. Aziraphale's respected him in that request, but he appreciates the gesture anew every time, all the same.

"Are you quite sure you don't want to go out?" Aziraphale asks as they settle in. He checks his pocket watch. "It's still early. I'm sure there's mischief afoot to be had yet."

"Nah," Crowley says, wrapping an arm around him and gesturing at the television with his other hand. "I've got you here, and I've got the entire history of TV and film at my disposal—that's all I want tonight. _Promise_. And besides," he adds, "I've spent _way_ too many Halloweens working—keeping up the reputation, you know. Especially in the cold years, because Head Office said it would be more effective if I did my thing when people were already miserable."

Aziraphale nods in sympathy and cuddles in closer, and then he summons a warm tartan blanket from the bookshop and spreads it over them for good measure. "I hope you know that—that there's nowhere else I'd rather be, either. Especially on a cold night like this."

He feels Crowley shift, followed by Crowley's lips pressing into the crown of his head. Aziraphale sighs and melts against him, wrapping an arm across Crowley's stomach under the blanket and letting Crowley take the brunt of his weight.

"What are we watching this evening, my dear?" Aziraphale asks once they're settled. "I recall you said you had something in mind." He furrows his brow and tries to recall Crowley's description. "There's singing and… a horse?"

Even without seeing his face, Aziraphale knows Crowley's rolling his eyes. "There's a guy who hunts _monsters_ , angel. And his singing… boyfriend, I think? And their girlfriend?" He shrugs, but not enough to dislodge Aziraphale. "I haven't seen it—I thought we could watch it together."

"Oh," Aziraphale says. He feels soft all over, sort of squidgy inside, like a really good cream sponge cake. Crowley clicks his fingers, and Netflix begins playing the first episode of _The Witcher_. A misty forest with a deer by a lake shows up on the screen; Aziraphale shivers with learned instincts and pulls the blanket tighter around them.

When an enormous, and enormously fake, spider-like creature erupts from the lake and the fighting begins, a blond man slashing ferociously at its body with a sword and managing to triumph even as the spider tries to drown him, he laughs and cuddles into Crowley's chest. "Excellent spooky pick, my dear."

Crowley smiles and nuzzles him right back. "I knew we'd like it."

*

The series is excellent, but after two episodes, Aziraphale grows weary of watching television. He tilts his head up and presses hot, sucking kisses to Crowley's neck and throat until Crowley gives in and clicks the television off.

"All right, all right." Crowley smiles down at him, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "You wanna go to bed?"

"If you're amenable," Aziraphale says. He kisses once on the underside of Crowley's jaw for good measure.

"Very." Crowley stands up and scoops Aziraphale up into his arms, blanket and all, in one fluid motion, and Aziraphale's urgency is suddenly far, _far_ greater than it was. He wraps his arms around Crowley's neck and leans up to press his lips against Crowley's. Crowley groans and deepens the kiss as he carries Aziraphale through the flat to deposit him on the bed.

Even then, Crowley doesn't stop kissing him. He climbs on top and keeps going, his arms bracketing Aziraphale on the mattress. His slim frame slots perfectly between Aziraphale's legs; his mouth is sure and smooth and still tastes pleasantly of red wine when he slides his tongue between Aziraphale's lips. Aziraphale arches up into him, opening up for Crowley and kissing him back. One of his legs comes up and wraps around Crowley's waist to draw him in closer.

"Crowley," he moans. Aziraphale maneuvers his hand between them to work open Crowley's belt buckle. "Let me get at you, my dear, you're so gorgeous."

"Yeah," Crowley says into his mouth. He leans up and nibbles the spot behind Aziraphale's ear, the one that always gets Aziraphale revved up. "Anything."

They undress each other piecemeal from there: Aziraphale's bow tie, Crowley's waistcoat, both of their shirts and trousers. As usual, Crowley's not wearing pants, so Aziraphale can reach right up and grasp the length of him, huge and hard in his hand.

"Let me suck you," Aziraphale murmurs. His mouth waters at just the thought of having Crowley in his mouth, of Crowley spilling down his throat. Wrapping his hands around Crowley's skinny hips, he drags Crowley closer to him. Crowley fits perfectly between his hands.

Crowley makes a noise in his throat and goes willingly, walks forward on his knees until his cock is resting against Aziraphale's lips. "Like this?"

In answer, Aziraphale pulls him even closer and takes Crowley into his mouth.

Crowley's cock is heavy on his tongue and salty with precome; he sucks him in, slowly at first, inch by inch until his mouth is full, his cheeks hollowed and stretched around Crowley's girth. Above him, sitting on Aziraphale's chest, Crowley groans and clutches at anything he can reach: the sheets, the pillows, Aziraphale's shoulders and chest.

Aziraphale closes his eyes and savors the taste and feel of him—thinks about how much he loves doing this for Crowley, how much he likes being with him, how grateful he is that they can be together like this, now after all this time.

When he feels a hand on his face, he opens his eyes. Crowley is there, fingers resting on his chest, feeling out the shape of himself through Aziraphale's skin. His face is flushed, and his bangs are flopping over into his face; his golden eyes are practically glowing in the darkened room, wide with a look of wonder in them.

"Keep going," Crowley groans. He keeps his hand on Aziraphale's face and traces over his cheek, his jaw, up through his hair. Aziraphale grips tighter to Crowley's hips and sucks him with renewed purpose, dragging his tongue up along the underside, laps over the sensitive tip, until Crowley is a squirming mess on top of him.

Crowley comes with barely a warning, just a groan and his hand tightening in Aziraphale's hair before he's spilling into Aziraphale's mouth, flooding him with his release. Aziraphale swallows it all, savoring not so much the taste but the feeling of intimacy that goes along with it all, with Crowley coming in his mouth and going soft between his lips.

"You've got—" Crowley pulls out with a loose, easy grin on his face and licks his own thumb, then scooches closer to wipe at the corners of Aziraphale's mouth, where some of his come's spilled out. He then presses his thumb to Aziraphale's mouth, offering himself up; Aziraphale gladly sucks his thumb clean and watches Crowley's breath come short as he does. That simple act is enough to remind him of his own unfulfilled pleasure, and the fact that he hasn't even gotten his pants off yet.

"Crowley," he says. He rises up enough to kiss Crowley, to open his mouth and let Crowley taste himself.

After a few minutes of this, delightful as it is, Aziraphale nudges Crowley over and onto the mattress. Crowley takes the hint; he reaches out and pulls Aziraphale over with him, meets his mouth again in a scorching kiss. His long arms trail down Aziraphale's sides until he's gripping the waistband of Aziraphale's pants, and after some squirming on both their parts, Aziraphale lies there fully bare on top of Crowley, his flushed and hard cock resting in the jut of Crowley's hip.

He could get off just like this, he thinks. With just some kissing, and rubbing against all of Crowley's lovely skin, but—

"How do you want me?" Crowley, smiling up at him, sneaks his hand between them to tweak Aziraphale's nipple, bringing him back to the moment. He considers the question and decides that, for now, simplicity is best.

"Will you turn over, my dear?"

They end up with Crowley lying on his stomach and Aziraphale behind him, his cock wedged between Crowley's lovely thighs. Crowley has such wonderfully soft skin, slippery now with lube; moving with him is a pleasure beyond the physical sensation of nerve endings and penetration. There's an aestheticism to it, too, but more than that, it's the surrender of their bodies to each other, the love that spills between them, easy as can be.

Aziraphale comes just as easily, a soft moan escaping his lips as he crests his peak and makes a mess of Crowley's thighs in the process. Instead of vanishing it right away, he burrows down into the slick skin of Crowley's back and wraps his arms around Crowley's middle, his softening cock still trapped in the juncture of Crowley's thighs.

"Cuddly, are we?" Crowley remarks. But he stretches with a well-pleasured sigh, snaps his fingers to clean them up, and turns over in Aziraphale's arms, snuggling closer and proving Aziraphale's not the only one feeling cuddly. The world may be dark and spooky outside, but here in Crowley's bed, everything is safe and warm and smells like him—like home.

"Mmmm." Aziraphale kisses the very tip of Crowley's nose just to watch his face scrunch up. "Happy Hallows' Eve, Crowley."

"Happy Halloween," Crowley mumbles back, and then he's asleep, right there in Aziraphale's arms.

*

When Aziraphale wakes up, it's November, the sun has barely risen over Mayfair, and Crowley is still snoring lightly beside him.

He kisses Crowley's slack mouth and strokes his hair back when Crowley starts to stir. "Shhhh. Keep sleeping, my dear."

"Mmmmmph," Crowley replies. His eyes stay decidedly closed. "'Kay. L've you."

Crowley falls back into a steady sleep following the endearment. Aziraphale strokes his cheek, slips out of bed, and pulls the covers more snugly around Crowley's thin shoulders.

Before leaving the bedroom, Aziraphale manifests a tartan silk robe, knee-length for just a little bit of daring. It feels delicious on his bare skin and sore muscles, and he shimmies a little before padding out of the room.

He greets the plants next. They perk up for him, leaves rustling and vines reaching out to curl around his wrists in a return greeting.

"Now, you know he won't have any of that," Aziraphale scolds them. He smiles and strokes some of the closest leaves, unable to help himself. The vines withdraw from his hands as he does. "But a very good morning to you as well."

Moving into the kitchen, he hums a tuneless sort of song as he moves around Crowley's space, setting the kettle on for tea and coaxing Crowley's space-age coffee maker into life and creation. He then considers the ingredients in Crowley's kitchen, summons a few more from the bookshop along with a recipe book, and sets to work.

It's quite relaxing, this—being alone, nearly nude, with just his baking to occupy him and knowing Crowley still sleeps just a couple of rooms away. Why, Crowley could sneak up on him at any moment! The thought thrills him.

As if on cue, Crowley stumbles into the kitchen doorway just as Aziraphale's pulling a tray of muffins out of the oven. "Morning."

Crowley, too, is barely dressed. In fact, Aziraphale realizes as he runs his eyes over Crowley, the only thing Crowley's wearing is Aziraphale's blue shirt, discarded in Crowley's bedroom the night before. It looks devilishly good at him, almost unbearably so.

As Crowley approaches the coffee maker, Aziraphale abandons his muffins on the counter. One of his arms slips up the shirt to wrap around Crowley's middle, while his other hand travels down to pinch Crowley's bare bottom.

"Good morning, darling," he says, very close to Crowley's ear. "I've made muffins, if you like. Pumpkin, to use up some of our leftovers."

"That's a bit feisty for muffins." Aziraphale can almost hear Crowley quirking an eyebrow as he fills his coffee mug.

Aziraphale gives him another squeeze and disentangles himself. "I just like you wearing my things. You look beautiful."

Crowley scowls, but in a way that demonstrates how much he can't stop smiling. "I thought you were baking a pie."

"Oh, that's for later." Aziraphale kisses Crowley's snake tattoo, then goes to arrange the muffins on a plate. "Here, come sit down."

Crowley looks bemused—it is _his_ kitchen, Aziraphale remembers belatedly—but does as he asks and sits at the counter, and Aziraphale brings the muffins over.

They eat and talk together, little morning nothings that somehow, when added up to a whole, mean everything. And if later, Crowley shrieks when Aziraphale takes it in his turn to carry him back to the bedroom—well, who's to know, anyway?

**Author's Note:**

> [There is now ART for this fic!](https://tarekgiverofcookies.tumblr.com/post/633632167169294337/carving-out-a-new-tradition-waterofthemoon) Thank you Tarek!!! 💖
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! You can find me on Tumblr as [@waterofthemoon](https://waterofthemoon.tumblr.com).


End file.
